Authors: William W. Johnstone

Flintlock (3 page)

BOOK: Flintlock

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CHAPTER FIVE

The defenders of Fort Defiance stood to all night.

There was no Apache attack.

However, just before dawn, the flimsy timber door of Roper's cabin was attacked, with considerable force, by a gloved fist.

“Go away!” Abe Roper yelled. “Or I'll shoot ya right where you stand.”

“Open up! This is Lieutenant Howard.”

“Who?” Roper said.

Flintlock sat up in his blankets and yawned. “He's the ten-year-old kid I told you about. The one the army calls an officer.”

Roper put on his hat, got to his feet and padded across the floor in his long-handled underwear. He opened the door just as Howard raised his fist to strike again.

The young officer saluted smartly and said, “Good morning, sir. I have a favor to ask.”

Roper's voice was hoarse from smoke and whiskey. “You wake up a man in the middle of the night and then ask him to do you a favor?”

Taken aback, Howard said, “But, sir, it's five o'clock. Didn't you hear reveille?”

“Boy, that's for soldiers, not civilians,” Roper said. “Now, get toâ”

“What can we do for you, Lieutenant?” Flintlock said, stepping to the door. Like Roper, he wore only his long johns and hat.

“Ah, yes, good morning, Mr. . . . ah . . . Mr. . . .”

“Flintlock.”

“Yes, yes, indeed, Mr. Flintlock. It's nice to make your acquaintance again.”

“Tell us what you want, soldier boy, or my friend here is liable to shoot you out of spite,” Flintlock said.

Howard had changed from his kepi to a wide-brimmed campaign hat and faded blue shirt adorned with his shoulder straps. He'd ditched his saber and carried only a revolver in a flapped holster.

“I need your help,” Howard said.

“What kind of help?” Roper said, his voice edged with suspicion.

“I'm detailed to recover Major Ashton's body and I've procured a wagon for that purpose,” Howard said.

“So?” Roper said.

“It's a small wagon,” Howard said.

“I'm not catching your drift, son,” Roper said. He turned his head to Flintlock. “Do you catch his drift?”

“I think so. You can't carry soldiers in the wagon, and even if you could, you know you can't turn a bunch of company clerks into Apache-fighting infantry,” Flintlock said. He smiled. “Is that about the size of it, Lieutenant?”

For a few moments Howard was lost for words, but he finally managed, “Sergeant Tone saw you gentlemen ride in last night and he said you appeared to be well mounted and armed with repeating rifles. If we engage the Apaches, I'd appreciate your fire support.”

“Not a chance, soldier boy,” Roper said, making to close the door. “We make it a rule never to fight Apaches or any other kind of Injun. Live longer that way and have hair to comb.”

Howard stuck his foot in the doorway. “I'm authorized by Captain Shaw to pay you five dollars each to take part in the expedition, ten if we encounter hostiles.”

Roper shook his head. “No deal, boy. Now you run along like a good little soldier and tell Captain Shaw where he can stick his five dollars.”

“Very well,” Howard said. Then, louder, “Sergeant Tone, burn down this cabin. It's been condemned as unfit for human occupation by the authority of Captain Shaw.”

“Hey, you can't do that,” Roper sputtered. “This is my cabin.”

“The dwelling is on army property, so you're trespassing,” Howard said. “Sergeant Tone, carry out my order.”

A torch flared in the morning half-light and the big noncom marched toward the cabin, the flaming brand in one hand, a can of coal oil in the other.

The soldiers, looking more unkempt and sloppy after standing to all night, had their rifles trained on the door, and they seemed mean enough and angry enough to cut loose if they had to.

“Wait!” Roper yelled. “All right, we'll join the . . . whatever the hell you called it. Pat Tone, you damned mick, get away from here with that torch before you burn us all to death.”

“Saw the light, huh, Abe?” Tone grinned. “It's about time and damn ye fer a benighted heathen.”

“Damned micks, damned army, damned officers, damned Apaches,” Roper said. “Then let's get it done.” He made a stand, a small act of defiance. “But I ain't going nowhere without my coffee.”

Howard said, “And you . . . ah . . . Mr. . . .”

“Flintlock.”

“Yes, of course. Will you join us?”

“It ain't my cabin.”

“Sam, if you don't ride with us to wipe the noses of the soldier boys, I'll take it hard,” Roper said. “Besides that, I'll shoot you the first chance I get.”

“You got a way with words, don't you, Abe?” Flintlock said.

“Well?”

“What's in it for me?”

“The golden bell.”

“Ring-a-ding-ding,” Flintlock said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I'll ride with you, Abe. But if the bell turns out to be a big windy, it's me who will shoot you the first chance I get.”

“I suggest you gentlemen save your ammunition for the Apaches,” Howard said. He looked at Roper. “There's coffee in the mess hall, and be quick about it.”

“Thank God the hostiles didn't get a chance to mutilate Major Ashton's body,” Lieutenant Howard said. “Captain Shaw was right, the major was indeed a gallant officer.”

“Ain't he though,” Flintlock said. “Hell, the major looks as good as new, lying there.”

Howard chose to ignore that and said, “The spent cartridges tell the story. See how Captain Shaw stood over the major's body and drove off the hostiles with steady and courageous rifle fire.”

“He deserves a medal,” Flintlock said.

“And I'm sure he'll be awarded one of the highest order,” Howard said, a single tear rolling down his plump young cheek. “He's a hero, like the gallant Custer.”

“Hey, how come I scouted this whole meadow and didn't see any blood?” Flintlock said.

“Yeah, strange that,” Charlie Fong said, chewing on a stem of grass.

“What do you mean?” Howard said.

“Well, if the captain done all this here shootin' and drove away Apaches who don't quit easy, you'd at least think he winged a couple.”

“No blood on the grass,” Fong said. And again, “Strange that.”

The air was hot and close and smelled of distant rain.

“The reason is obvious to a thinking man,” Howard said, slightly angry. “Obviously Captain Shaw put up such a stout defense that, despite suffering no casualties, the cowardly hostiles fled in confusion.”

“Soldier boy, the Apaches are many things, most of them bad, but being cowards ain't one of them,” Abe Roper said.

“Then I beg to differ,” Howard said. “Fort Defiance drove off with ease attacks by hostiles twice in half a dozen years. Note, I say, with ease, Mr. Roper.”

“Lieutenant, those were Navajo,” Roper said. “When it comes to sand and meanness, a hundred of them don't stack up to a single Apache.”

“I'm here to return Major Ashton's body to the fort, not to argue the point about savages,” Howard said. He turned to the two sullen privates who'd come with the wagon. “You men, load the major's body. He's an officer and a gentleman, remember. Treat him with all due respect for his rank.”

As the two soldiers struggled to load the major's body into the wagon, Roper took Flintlock aside.

“What do you reckon, Sammy?” he said.

“The captain never fit Apaches here, I reckon that much. No bloodstains in the grass out there, no horse tracks, no spent shells.”

“Why the hell would he lie about it?”

“Well, he and the major were deer hunting. Shaw might've plugged the man by accident and then skedaddled.”

“Yeah, after he fired a few rounds over Ashton's body to back up his Apache story and then shot himself in the leg,” then added, “Makes sense,” Roper said. “What do you think, Charlie?”

“Good an explanation as any,” Fong said. “Sam's right, there's no sign that Apaches were ever here.”

“He could've done it on purpose,” Roper said.

“You mean Shaw murdered him?” Flintlock said.

“Maybe so.”

“Why?”

Roper shrugged. “Who knows?”

“A woman maybe?” Flintlock said.

“You seen Ashton's wife? Shaw didn't murder his commanding officer over her.”

“Then it was an accident.”

“I don't know what it was,” Roper said. “Do we care?”

“No, I guess not,” Flintlock said. “But I got the feeling there's something mighty strange goin' on around here.”

Roper grinned. “I declare, Sammy, you're like an old maiden aunt who hears a rustle in every bush.”

“Maybe I am,” Flintlock said. “Or maybe I'm not.”

CHAPTER SIX

“So, how you like the Old Crow sippin' whiskey, Sam'l?” Abe Roper said.

“Besides Robert E. Lee, it's the best thing that ever came out of the South,” Flintlock said.

He set his glass on the floor beside his rickety chair, one of only two in the cabin. “Abe, tell me about the bell,” he said.

“Gettin' gold fever, Sam?” Charlie Fong grinned.

“Gettin' curious, Charlie,” Flintlock said.

“That's what killed the cat, Sammy,” Roper said.

“So let the cat out of the bag and we'll see what happens,” Flintlock said.

“All right, first the story, then I'll tell you where it happened. That set fine by you?”

“Story away.”

“Once upon a time . . .”

“I like it already,” Flintlock said.

“There was a Spanish mission, at a place north of here,” Roper said. “For two hundred years the holy monks took care of the local Indians, converted them to the one true faith and did many good works.”

Flintlock ran an oily cloth over the barrel of the Hawken. “You should've been a preacher, Abe,” he said. “When you try, you're a fine-talking man.”

“Thought about it for a spell, but then I figured I was more suited to the bank-robbing profession.”

“You were cut out fer that, all right, Abe,” Charlie Fong said.

“Thanks, Charlie, I appreciate it,” Roper said, bowing his head in acknowledgment of the compliment.

“So, the holy monks are going about baptizing folks and doin' good works, then what?” Flintlock said. His entire attention seemed to be focused on scraping a speck of rust off the Hawken's barrel with his thumbnail.

“Well, suddenly the monks was in a heap of trouble,” Roper said. “Bad stuff comin' down, if'n you catch my drift.”

“You don't say?”

“I do say. See, how it come up, over the years the Indians brought the monks all kinds of gold as presents, like. I mean, they knew how all white men love gold and the monks were no exception.”

“Just like us, Abe,” Charlie Fong said.

“Truer words was never spoke, Charlie,” Flintlock said. “I hate to break it to you, but you're not just like us. You ain't a white man, Charlie.”

“No, I'm a yellow man.”

“Close, but no ceegar,” Flintlock said.

“Now where was I? Oh yeah, the gold the Injuns was bringing was raw, nuggets and dust most likely, not golden rings and chalices an' the like,” Roper said. “The monks ended up with quite a poke, but then they got nervous.”

“How come?” Flintlock said. “I never seen a nervous monk.”

“Well, them old monks was nervous right enough. It seems that the king o' Spain's tax collector got wind of the stash and it was in his mind to . . . what's that word, Charlie?”

“Confiscate.”

“Oh yeah, confiscate the gold and send it back to Spain for the king to spend on women and whiskey.”

Flintlock laid the now gleaming Hawken across his knees. “Harsh thing that, robbin' holy monks who did nothin' but good works,” he said.

“It was all of that. But then the monks put their heads together and came up with a plan.”

“This is when the story gets good,” Fong said, grinning.

“So let me tell it, Charlie, huh?” Roper said.

“Go right ahead, Abe. Sorry, but I always get excited at this part.”

Roper glared at Fong for a few moments, then said, “Well, anyhoo, the monks did two thingsâthey made a cast for a bellâ”

“What kind of bell?” Flintlock said.

“A big bell. How would I know what kind of bell?”

“Well, there's a hand bell and aâ”

“A big bell, like I said. Sammy, it was a big bell, all right?”

Flintlock nodded. “Fine. A church bell. Go right ahead, Abe.”

“I swear, you're a worse interrupter than Charlie,” Roper said.

“So the monks melted down the gold an' cast it into a bell,” Flintlock said.

“Yeah, that's what they did all right, made a big bell.”

“Wouldn't the tax collector notice a big golden bell?” Flintlock said. “I mean, it would be pretty obvious.”

“The monks thought of that. They painted the bell black, rubbed rust onto the surface and then hung it above the entrance to the mission. The tax collector rode under the bell and never knew it was made of solid gold.”

Flintlock built a cigarette and without looking up, said, “How heavy was the big bell?”

“I knew you'd get around to askin' that, Sam'l. Are you ready fer this?”

“I guess I am. But I'm holding my breath.”

“It weighs two thousand pounds of pure, shining gold.”

“How much is that in American money?” Flintlock said.

“Tell him, Charlie,” Roper said. “I want to see his face.”

“Sixty-five thousand dollars and a few cents, more or less,” Fong said. “Big bell, big money, Sam.”

“How did they get it up there?” Flintlock said.

Roper was puzzled. “Get what up there?”

“The big bell. If it weighs as much as you say it does, how did they hang it above the mission gate?”

“Pulleys and willing hands,” Roper said. “How the hell should I know? Sammy, you sure ask some dumb questions.”

“All right, then here's another dumb question: Where do I come in?”

“That ain't dumb, it's a true-blue question as ever was,” Roper said.

“Then answer it,” Flintlock said.

“We need your gun, Sam'l. That's how come I saved you from gettin' hung. I mean, once I knowed it was really you.”

“I smell a rat,” Flintlock said. “Damnit, I'm sure I smell a rat.”

“And no wonder. By anybody's reckoning, it's a real big rat,” Charlie Fong said.

“How big?” Flintlock said. For the first time that night he felt uneasy.

“How about Asa Pagg big?” Roper said.

Those words hit Flintlock like five hard jabs to the belly.

“You've got to be joking,” he said. “You want me to say ha-ha, right?”

“No joke,” Roper said. “He's in this neck of the woods. How we know, we heard he'd killed a man at a settlement down in the Zuni Buttes country of the New Mexico Territory.”

“Asa always operates south of the Mogollon Rim,” Flintlock said. “It's his home range and he never budges.”

“He's budged,” Roper said.

“He still run with Logan Dean an' Joe Harte an' them?” Flintlock said.

“I don't know.”

“Why is he here, Abe?” Flintlock said.

He figured he already knew the answer to that question and Roper confirmed it. “We think, me an' Charlie, that maybe he heard about the golden bell.”

“How?”

Roper looked at Charlie Fong.

“Sam, the way it was told to us, a prospector was up in the Red Rock Valley when he got caught in a snowstorm,” Fong said. “Well, he headed west into the Carrizo Mountains and took refuge in a cave.”

“And he saw the bell,” Flintlock said.

“Yeah . . . a huge bell made of solid gold. He says the sight of it made him sick and he didn't stay long.”

“Was he sober?” Flintlock said.

“Sober enough to know he couldn't move two thousand pounds of gold by himself,” Roper said.

“So he came to you,” Flintlock said.

“Nope, we happened on him by chance in a saloon down Silver City way,” Roper said. “That was a two-month ago.”

“And he told you the story about the monks and the gold and you believed him?”

“Not right off, we didn't. Ain't that right, Charlie?”

“Damn right . . . until the old-timer showed us a map he'd made of the mountains and an
X
marking the cave,” Fong said. “Then we figured he was telling the truth.”

“Tinpans tell big stories, everybody knows that,” Flintlock said. “How much did you pay him for the map?”

“Not one thin dime,” Roper said. “He said his time was short, on account of how he couldn't breathe, and if we found the bell and sold it, we were to send some of the money to his widowed sister in Richmond. Give us a paper with her address an' all. Said the lady's husband wore the gray and fell at Gettysburg. A man doesn't lie about a thing like that.”

“Then how did Asa Pagg get wind of the bell?” Flintlock said.

Roper smiled as he admired the amber glow of his whiskey.

“Sammy,” he said, “a man can have an
affaire d'amour
with the wife of the president of these United States and keep it a secret. But if a man strikes pay dirt in a wilderness, within a week he finds himself in the middle of a gold rush.”

“In other words, when gold's involved, word gets around,” Fong said.

“So your dying prospector got drunk an' blabbed,” Flintlock said.

“Maybe so,” Roper said.

“Where the hell did you pick up fancy words like
affaire d'amour
? You goin' back to school or something?” Flintlock said.

“Nah, an El Paso whore teached that to me,” Roper said. “I took a shine to it, like.”

“Educated whore,” Flintlock said.

“No, she wasn't. She was a French gal, from up Canada way, and she was as dumb as dirt.”

“All right, then why me, Abe?”

“Call yourself a gift from heaven, Sam'l. I knowed it when I sprung you from that rube jailâ”

“Blew me up, you mean.”

“Don't be so harsh, Sam,” Charlie Fong said. “We figured you had one chance in ten of surviving the gunpowder. Them's better odds than the hangman would've given you of walking away after the drop.”

“To anybody but a Chinaman, them's lousy odds,” Flintlock said. “But go ahead, Abe. Why me?”

“Because I can't shade Asa Pagg, but you can,” Roper said. “Charlie, can I say it any plainer than that? Am I right or am I wrong?”

“No, sir, you're right and you can't say it plainer,” Fong said.

“And study on this, Sammy,” Roper said. “If for some reason we don't find the big bell, last time I looked, Asa had a five-thousand reward on his head, dead or alive. Gun ol' Asa and in a manner of speakin' you'd be mixing business with pleasure. Ain't that right, Charlie?”

“Truer words was never spoke,” Fong said.

“So what do you say, Sam'l?” Roper said.

“Like you said, I'll study on it,” Flintlock said. “I admit that the bounty on Asa Pagg kinda tilts the scales in your favor.”

“Just don't sit on your gun hand too long,” Roper said. “We're riding out as soon as Jack Coffin gets here.”

“I never liked that breed,” Flintlock said. “He still collect trigger fingers?”

“As far as I know,” Roper said. “You don't have to like him, Sammy. Who the hell does? But if the tinpan's map ain't exact, he'll find that cave for us.”

“I may gun him,” Flintlock said. “He's a disgrace to the bounty-hunting profession.”

“Sure, but wait until after he finds the cave.”

“And the golden bell,” Charlie Fong said.

BOOK: Flintlock

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